Tired always tiring of daylight and grey
he wakes up in a mess of unfinished thought.
He walks he talks and he scratches around
eating dust and hiding behind headlines and beer.
Trying always tried to sleep on his feet
geometric cubism fantasies cursing enthusiastic beats
swelling his brain like a drum machine blitzkrieg
damn the mescalin and damn the pills
the world is going to end tomorrow.
The sun is exploding and the moon is breaking up
and we are nothing more than burnt toast.
There’s a dry awful taste in the mouth
bitter water burning tea leaves eating raw sage
cotton wool and kava leaf scum bucket cry baby piss pot old sod no god and no
room for another one like you in the whole world.
Commitment and counter-insurgency
sophisticated cosmetic surgery
off peak water
dairy free powdered milk
long shift high tide free trade soft power
old hat new shit landmines gold stocks
diamond drill oil spill bad fix bad trip
centre left centre right primary vote overnight
in disguise he speaks all the propehcies they despise and he can’t decide whether to undermine or hide in plain sight because when the streets start burning up in their guilt and people turn to one another and are forced to acknowledge the mortality of their environment and way of life, all hell has not only broken loose but soon the lakes of fire will warm our souls and the lucky ones jump on their arks and sail over the boiling horizon while the rest of us stew in the remains of our culture and our hubris and our dreams…
one fell blow,